


Please, Please Me

by cleflink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, Bottom John, But it's meant to be fully consensual, Could be read as minor dub-con, M/M, Orgasm Denial, PWP, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6173398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleflink/pseuds/cleflink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock saves 'please' for things that he really wants. This definitely applies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please, Please Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'let me try, please' for the winter 2016 round of come_at_once on LJ.

Contrary to popular opinion, Sherlock did know how to say 'please'. He just didn't usually see the point.

It was an unnecessary contrivance. Most people were idiots who didn't deserve his so-called manners in the first place. Why should he have to ask _politely_ for something they ought to have known to do without needing to be told? 

Those few souls who perhaps did merit a modicum of courtesy from him knew better than to expect it by this point. Even John, especially John, wasn't foolish enough to expect Sherlock to be polite about anything. Using 'please' when it wasn't absolutely necessary would have been pointless.

Besides, he hardly wanted the word's efficacy to lessen should he start using it more often. Suddenly, people - John - would be expecting him to use it all the time, as though he gave a toss about manners, of all things. No, Sherlock definitely preferred to be strategic in his use of the word 'please'. 

And, _oh_ , this moment was definitely proof of the value of that policy.

He had John bound by his wrists to the headboard, with enough slack on the lines to keep the stretch from doing damage to his shoulder. A blindfold stretched across his eyes, the fabric wrinkled and damp with sweat and the helpless toss of John's head. John's cock was hard and leaking against his belly, the head almost purple with need. Sherlock ran fond fingers along the black cock ring around the base of John's cock, and received a garbled moan as reward.

Sherlock smirked.

The sun had slid halfway across the room since they'd begun, and Sherlock could see the toll the exertion was taking on John: his chest was heaving and his face was contorted into the most perfect expression of agonized bliss that Sherlock was tempted to pull out and fetch his mobile to take a picture. Stopping would invalidate the entire experiment, though, and he didn't intend to give John a chance to catch his breath. He much preferred him clinging to the edges of his self control, half-mad with frustrated ecstasy.

And speaking of which…

Sherlock thrust hard, once, twice, wrangling a strangled scream from John that was obscenely loud in the quiet of their bedroom. John's shuddering gasp was mostly a sob when Sherlock immediately returned to the same steady pace with which he'd been taking John apart for the last - a quick glance at the clock - three and two thirds hours. Sherlock's cock was throbbing within the confines of its own matching cockring, but that only increased the headiness of being wrapped in John's hot, swollen heat.

Delightful, the things that John would do for him when Sherlock said 'please'. 

"Ngh, God, _Sherlock_ …"

Sherlock hushed him, leaning down to mouth at John's throat. The mottled aftermath of a run-in with a serial strangler stood out in lividly dark contrast to the flushed skin and Sherlock took great pleasure in adding yet more marks to that bruised skin. 

Long months in England had been more than enough to have John's skin to revert to its traditional London pale. While Sherlock could admit to missing the sight of John's sun-golden body sprawled across his dark sheets, he could only appreciate how much easier it was to bruise John these days.

Sherlock liked seeing John with marks on him, whether they'd been put there by Sherlock's mouth or by the scum of the underworld. There could be none of John's delusions of normalcy when his body was littered with bite marks and knife wounds and bruises. A damaged John was indestructible, dangerous and alive and real in a way that made Sherlock's breath catch. Every new mark he placed on John's skin was worship in its purest form.

"Sher-lock," John moaned again, breath catching in time with the pull of Sherlock's teeth. "Please, oh God, _please_ -"

"Do you want to come, John?" Sherlock murmured, just to watch the shiver that rocked John's spine at the sound of his voice. He hadn't said a word since they'd started.

"Yes," John gasped, tails of his blindfold slithering across the pillow as his head thrashed. "I can't-"

"You can," Sherlock contradicted, which made John sob though he didn't disagree. "I'll let you come if y-"

"Yes, please, please, Sherlock, oh fuck, I'm losing my mind-"

"Hush, John." Sherlock pressed a deceptively gentle kiss to the bite mark he'd left on John's neck, before raising up and gripping John's hips bruise-tight.

John sobbed out in gratitude.

Sherlock's next thrust sent the headboard banging against the wall and John wailed, entire body jackknifing within the confines of the ropes. Sherlock didn't give either of them a chance to recover: he immediately started on the punishing pace that was guaranteed to bring John screaming to the edge within minutes. His hips pistoned into John again and again and again, the slap of his balls against John's upturned arse playing counterpart to the protesting squeak of the mattress. 

John thrashed and swore, so insensate with pleasure that he didn't even notice when one of Sherlock's hands snaked down to unsnap the cockring. Another two pumps of Sherlock's cock had John howling out his orgasm, his body clamping down so exquisitely on Sherlock that he would have come himself if not for the ring still holding his own orgasm at bay.

John's entire body went lax, collapsing back onto the bed like his strings had been cut. "Fuck," he breathed, voice shaking.

Sherlock hummed in absent agreement. Then he started moving again.

John lay there panting for several long moments, not protesting, but his body slowly started tensing up again as the press of Sherlock inside him went from pleasurable to too-much.

Sherlock stilled at the deepest point, buried balls deep in John's heat, and leaned down to bite at John's earlobe. John moaned, twitched, arched into the pain. 

"Let me keep you like this," Sherlock whispered. "Pliant and mine. Just a little while longer." His tongue followed the puff of his words against John's skin, tasting sweat and desperation. He rocked his hips deliberately and smiled at the punched-out breath it drew from John. 

John was shaking his head, face crumpling from too many different sensations zinging through his nervous system. "Too much," he protested, even as he pressed back into the movement.

"It isn't," Sherlock said confidently. 

They both knew he was right.

Sherlock stroked a hand down John's flank, lingering over a bruise. "Please, John."

And with a shuddering sigh, John relaxed into the mattress, surrendering his body to Sherlock's whim.

Greatly pleased, Sherlock started fucking him again, determined to enjoy himself. He _had_ said please again, after all. Wouldn't do to waste it.

~fin


End file.
